Musings of a White Haired Teenager

Pivot, Please (If you just want to listen try the Audio Deep Dive  in English) On a recent trip, I had to make a quick decision — a “pivot,” as we now call it. You remember “pivot,” right? The sacred buzzword of the Covid era. Back then, it was corporate-speak for “we have no idea what’s happening, so let’s pretend this is the best thing after sliced bread.” Everyone was pivoting — restaurants, universities, your yoga instructor, even your dog groomer, not to mention your lover who would spend countless data on secretive video calls. The word became a badge of virtue. So, there I was, on an international trip, forced to pivot. Pivoting was essentially managing risks, because we all take risks and when we have choices between the most risky to somewhat risky decisions we pivot to the least risky. Risk-taking always brings along its anxious sibling: risk management. You can’t take a risk without simultaneously crafting the story of why it was “the right move,” and pivoting was select...

The Message in the Mask ( Audio Deep Div e English; Audio Deep Dive Bangla) Covid did many terrible things, but perhaps its greatest magic trick was convincing us that distance could feel like closeness. We told ourselves it was noble—this “human contact reduction.” Stay home, save lives, text furiously. The digital message became the new handshake, the video call the new hug. For a while, we even believed it. We said things like, “See? Connection doesn’t have to be physical,” while sitting in our pajamas, lit by the unholy glow of a laptop camera, nodding into the void of a Zoom rectangle. Then the world reopened. People went back to coffee shops, airports, classrooms, and whatever passed for normal. The masks came off, but the habits stayed. Somewhere between “Can you hear me?” and “You’re on mute,” we learned that the digital proxy actually worked—sort of. Messaging systems exploded, and suddenly a thumbs-up emoji or a five-word text—“thinking of you, stay safe”—became the social e...

The book is done. Finally. After months of listening, transcribing, analyzing, and occasionally arguing with myself like a deranged panel of one, it’s finished. You’d think that would feel definitive, but even as I close the last chapter, a familiar thought sneaks back in — like that uninvited guest who shows up just as you’re doing the dishes. Managing change — or crisis, or anything that threatens to ruin the illusion of control - isn’t really about managing facts. It’s about managing stories.  Not the grand epics of the powerful, not the government’s carefully pressed statements with their shiny slogans, but the small, handcrafted tales we spin just to stay upright. The stories we use to make chaos feel organized, to justify our choices, and to convince ourselves that we still have agency while the roof is caving in. The focus groups I spent time with drove this home. Everyone had a story — their survival kit. The logic didn’t always hold, but the narrative did. They needed a ve...

I’m finishing the last section of my book on Covid narratives, and I keep circling back to the same conclusion: people make decisions on the basis of stories. Not evidence. Not logic. Stories. And not just their own stories—other people happily jump in to reinforce them, especially when there’s something in it for them. During the pandemic, science was catching up as it went along, so we leaned on stories to guide our actions. Remember the “15-minute rule”? Stay near a Covid-positive person for fewer than 15 minutes and you were supposedly safe, like the virus had a stopwatch. At 14:59 you’re fine, at 15:01 you’re doomed. I used that little gem myself when I delivered food to the sick family of a dear friend (bondhu). Did I actually believe it? Not really. But I wanted to believe it, and the narrative gave me cover. And that’s the thing: we don’t just invent these stories alone. We get help. People around us validate, repeat, and polish the narrative until it feels like the truth. And...

Loyalty is usually sold as noble. A virtue. A steady hand on the rudder of life. But in relationships, that noble loyalty takes a darker turn when the newcomer enters. Suddenly, loyalty isn’t a gift freely given — it’s a demand, an ultimatum. Prove your devotion not by being present, but by erasing everything that came before. The past isn’t just behind you; it becomes the enemy. This is not loyalty as trust or love. This is loyalty as ransom. “You want me? Burn everything else.” The friends who stood by you for decades. A threat. The family who shaped you? A liability. The institutions that made you whole? Dangerous. Your history, once your anchor, is reclassified as evidence of betrayal. To stay “loyal,” you must file for divorce from your own past. The script is ruthless. Meet an old friend, and you’re accused of disloyalty. Recall a fond memory, and suspicion grows. Show affection for anyone from “before,” and suddenly your loyalty is in question. The newcomer doesn’t just want to ...

One of my loyal readers, in a comment stated, “Genuine loyalty is moral clarity wrapped in care,” in response to a recent blog . And opened a Pandora’s Box – loyalty - that quaint little word we like to dress up in Sunday clothes, pretending it’s still shiny, noble, and worth something in a world addicted to the next big thing or the next magnificent person. I used to think loyalty was invisible, hidden quietly in gestures and choices. But no—actions out you every time. Actions don’t lie. Wear the tie with the university crest, and suddenly you’re branded: “company man.” I heard that more than once when I was chairing my department. And yes, guilty as charged. Because loyalty to an institution, to a person, to a relationship, actually meant something to me. Imagine that—choosing predictability over chaos, constancy over the sugar rush of novelty. What an old-fashioned fool. The truth is: loyalty has a price. It demands sacrifice. It demands compromise. It demands giving up some dreams,...

I will put the associated song here in case you want to listen to it. Promises Without a Bottle A kind and thoughtful reader commented on the most recent blog and said that what eventually matters is walking toward the future with quiet clarity. Got me thinking. Sounds beautiful, almost poetic. But let’s not kid ourselves. Clarity in relationships is reaching perfection, and perfection is no small trick. Because clarity happens when promises and actions converge. When they don’t, the whole thing falls apart. Promises without action? That’s fluff, nothing more than sweet talk floating in the air. Action without promise? That’s just confusing—why the heck did you bother if there’s no suggestion of a future, no hint you’ll ever repeat it again? Sure, the promises— I care for you, I think about you —sound noble, but words without action are nothing but stage props. The real test of a narrative is not how pretty the dialogue sounds, but whether it can stand up, walk into the room, and pou...